Drown [z.m.]

24.

((An excerpt from Harry's diary one week before Zayn Malik drowned))

He's so different so different so different. I find him at his doorstep smoking (he's not a smoker), I find him running laps around the neighbourhood until he quits (he's not a quitter), I find him staring into space and drinking (he's not a drinker).

It's like he has his own private sunbeam he keeps close to his heart while the rest of us cling onto anything we get a hold of so we're not washed away.

I find him and I find him

but I can't find him.

I have to say his name four times before he hears me, and ring his doorbell six times before he answers it, and kick a bloody chair across the kitchen before he even knows anyone has joined him.

I don't know Zayn anymore.

...

Hospitals are terrifying at two a.m.

Harry's clutching a coffee cup in his hand and it tastes a bit too sweet, so he stares at it instead, trying to catch his reflection but it's too dark.

Liam's head is resting on his shoulder and it's heavy and uncomfortable, and he has a habit of murmuring in his sleep but Harry's too lost to shrug him off.

They're alone except for an older woman in the distance, a crazed-looking balding guy sitting a few feet away. All of Zayn's visitors left (there were too many to count, mainly from school because of his social status). They were swarming and concerned and now they were gone, gone, gone.

There were really only two people in this waiting room who truly cared.

Harry clenches the cup in his hand, causing the coffee to spill and stain his jeans, scorching his thigh.

"Do you think we could've done something?" Liam surprises Harry; his voice is hoarse and far away, like he is talking to him from the moon.

"What do you mean? It was an accident. There's nothing we could've done," Harry replies, exhaling the words quietly.

An accident.

An accident.

An accident.

It was cut up baby pictures replaced by the cold tar of adulthood. It was heart wrenching yells when he was alone. It was looking at the mirror and punching it so the shards bloodied his knuckles. It was calling up people and hearing dialtone and no one, no one to ask if he was okay. It was pressing his forehead to the window and staring out until it was dawn and stars exploded in his vision and his lungs gave up and his mind gave up and his heart gave up.

It was water and angst everywhere.

There's a man dressed in a pristine white coat approaching the two boys. They sit up instantly, their eyes wide, the earth trembling and the shadows holding their breath.

"Are you here for Zayn Malik?"

"Yes." Liam doesn't know if he thinks the word or says it because it doesn't matter.

"We're giving him another twenty four hours at best."

His voice is grim, and apologies tumble out of his lips but it doesn't matter.

Everything stirs and renders and quickens. Everything is brittle and fragile. Everything is tears burnished into the late night sky.

Harry knows Liam well enough to know that he's breaking, his tongue tarnished by words and if's and but's, and Harry himself is a hand held out for miracles, and the two boys clutch each other's hands and let the tears roll silently in nearly empty hospital rooms.

They won't know Zayn anymore.